


and i don't see an easy way to get out of this

by cocked



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, a lot of sexual tension & content, more tags to come with each chapter, rio is his own warning, very mutually toxic relationship, violence of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26851510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocked/pseuds/cocked
Summary: Rio manages to make just about every situation tense in two separately complicated ways, and Beth's gradual descent into enjoying it is entirely unwanted... and unavoidable.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	1. blade

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a collection of ficlets centered around a loose plot taking place between and after canon scenes, sometimes specified, sometimes not. 
> 
> Each chapter is based around a list of writing prompts for the month of October.

The kids are playing cheerily in the backyard, the birds are chirping their approval of the day’s crisp weather as summer descends into fall, and you’re slicing into thick strips of raw chicken when Rio lets himself in through the back door.

“Oh my _god_ ,” you hiss, dropping your knife with a noisy clatter in exchange for resting your hand over your heart. “Are you serious? My kids are out there!”

“Yeah,” Rio agrees, “I said hey.”

While he makes himself enough at home to lean against your counter, you make a hasty beeline for the window to ensure your children are still kicking a soccer ball around outside and not stuffed into the back of a van. Reassured, you turn back to find him smiling slightly, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, smug and relaxed as ever.

“What can I do for you?” you ask, tone as uninviting as you can manage.

“Just checking in.”

Narrowing your eyes, you return to your chicken, eager to continue your task and pretend as though his very presence doesn’t intimidate you. It’s like what you learn from the animal kingdom, prey versus predator: _Never let them smell fear._ “Well, you checked in. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Feisty today,” he says in that rasp of his. You wonder if he smoked to get that way, or if it’s a natural consequence of inhaling people’s very souls just to make a living. Probably better not to ask aloud; he’ll mistake it for interest.

And you’re so far from interested.

“It must be the weather,” you say, “or that constant threat hanging over my head and entering my home without consent. One of those for sure.”

Rio shifts, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of his every move again. He steps forward, and you aren’t sure what he plans to do, but he pauses before he can act on it. You notice it at the same time he does — the blade in your hand, a sharp kitchen knife between you, every bit the threat he is without his bodyguards in the room to back him up.

You lock eyes. He’s blissfully quiet, considering you. You could reach out and slash at him right now, race around the counter and attack him if you wanted to. God knows he deserves it. Is he weighing the likelihood of that as you are now?

“Elizabeth,” he murmurs, lips framing your name tenderly, softening its fall even as it slips out. Not quite a warning, not quite a scolding, more a reminder of why you can’t do what you want to do with this knife. His eyes on yours are more convincing than you'd like them to be, than they _should_ be, but his steps around the counter are each one more test after another.

You’re tired of tests, you’re tired of being good, you’re tired of _him_.

He stands so close to you now that the knife nearly grazes his stomach. You tilt your head up to look at him, heart so quick in your chest, _buh-dum buh-dum buh-dum_. Amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes. You want to stab him. You want to sink the knife between his ribs, deep inside of him, and lick into his mouth when he gasps for the breath you've denied him. It's such a violent, overwhelming fantasy that you lean back a little from the force of it.

And when he leans _closer_ , you almost do the same.

"Mommy!" a little voice chirps from the doorway, aggravated. "I'm hungry!"

Right. But anyway, your kids are outside.

You smile, shifting away from Rio and suppressing the urge to hide the knife behind your back. It's not like you actually did anything wrong. "I know, baby, Mommy's working on it. Go back outside, I'll call you when it's ready. Okay?"

Your daughter pouts. She glances at Rio, of all people.

For his part, Rio smiles an easy smile. "Listen to your mama, huh? Go on."

With an alarming grin, she races off, back outside, yelling playfully at her brothers as she goes. You look at Rio, searchingly. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Watches you, studies you, in that way he does sometimes where you aren’t sure if you’re disappointing or impressing him.

Just when you're about to clear your throat, he reaches out.

"Better wash that thing nice and thorough," he says, one calloused finger trailing a slow descent down the back of your hand, over the knife. Shivers erupt everywhere it goes, everywhere it doesn't. "Salmonella's a real bitch."

He leaves your home with little more else than a laugh, and you don’t quite succeed in keeping stabbings and blood-covered neck tattoos and obnoxious, _raspy_ chuckles out of your nightly fantasies.


	2. graceful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks remarkably like a human being.

In one of the most unsettling coincidences to date, you accidentally end up in the same grocery store as none other than Rio himself.

This isn’t your usual store. Your favorites are much closer to your house, quick and easy drives well-stocked with organic options and most of your kids’ favorites. What they don’t have, though, is a newer specialty brand of gluten-free vegan turkey they swear tastes just like the real thing. You definitely aren’t vegan, but you’re curious to try what everyone in your Mommy Facebook group has been raving about.

And that’s where you see him, forty-seven minutes outside your neighborhood. No hoodie, no gun, no silent hulking bodyguards like Dobermans with twitchy trigger fingers. Your first glimpse of your nightmare, your “boss,” your crude greedy gangbanger out in the wild.

When he doesn’t immediately pull a weapon out of his pocket nor lift his head to address you, you exhale the long, shaky breath you’d been holding as soon as you spotted him. Tentatively, you squeeze the handles of your shopping cart and slip further down the aisle, head turned without truly seeing the lipsticks and glosses laid out in front of you. These beauty aisles and displays are much shorter than their grocery relatives, and so you can watch Rio from two aisles down without peeking around anything like a stalker.

He looks remarkably like a human being.

His shirt is white, a stark contrast to the black you’ve grown so accustomed to being terrorized in. It’s crisp, unwrinkled, the collar ironed, the sleeves short. Joining the brief glimpses of tattoos along his arms are two white wristbands, looking perplexingly out of character and more befitting an athlete. Only his pants faithfully remain dark, falling loose around his legs, easy to move in. It all paints a perplexing picture you aren’t sure you actually want to absorb just yet.

Rio has hobbies.

Rio plays tennis.

Okay then.

He’s stopped in the organic soap aisle. There’s a lavender-colored bar of soap in his hand, which he gives a thoughtful sniff before tilting his head at the ingredients list. You’re shocked he bothers with that sort of thing. You’re shocked he’s considering buying organic. You’re shocked he uses soap.

Fine, not really. He usually smells good, actually, like spicy cologne and something metallic, but you aren’t ready to absorb _that_ , either.

He slips the soap into his basket. Ridiculously, you wonder if he’s going to smell like lavender next time he holds you at gunpoint, and now you’re positive that Ruby’s right about you needing to pace yourself a little better before you end up in a psych ward.

Rio keeps walking down his aisle—and it is unmistakably his aisle, because he walks into every building as though he owns it personally—and instead of running in the opposite direction, you follow in small, tense steps. It’s bizarrely fascinating, watching him move when he doesn’t know he’s _being_ watched by you. Like you have the upperhand for once, an advantage over him. It’s bizarrely fascinating and something else, a third thing you aren’t ready to absorb let alone acknowledge to yourself yet.

The way he walks reminds you of a cat. A big, dangerous one; a panther, a tiger. He has the cocky swagger in his hips, the confident tilt of his chin and shoulders even when his posture is relaxed, the air of a predator sharing your space who doesn’t intend to kill you _yet_. He never trips, or falters, or looks unsure. This jungle belongs to him.

_Graceful_ isn’t a word that you wanted to apply to Rio, of all people, but damn if it doesn’t fit.

He picks up deodorant, a frozen pizza, a bottle of wine, a cooking magazine. It’s the small book and magazine section that he spends the most time in, to your surprise, and he even reads the back blurbs of a few novels before deciding against them. Every single thing he does appears peculiarly thoughtful, as if he’s taking his time letting everything soak in before making his decisions. He’s the most interesting show you’ve watched in over three decades, and you hate yourself for that.

Where you expect him to use self-checkout, he waits in line for a real cashier. He makes seemingly pleasant conversation with her, laughs over some joke exchanged between them. She laughs, too, like she’s charmed, like this is a genuine conversation with a friendly stranger who wouldn’t threaten her life if she got between him and his money.

_Have I got news for you,_ you think dryly.

Rio goes home. You could go out to your car and follow him, try to see where he lives, send the police to his door for an ugly surprise, but that’s a complicated impulse full of so many risks you’re getting a headache just considering it. So you keep shopping instead. Like it never happened, like he was never here.

No proof except the matching bar of lavender soap you shove into your cart.


End file.
